"What are you doing?" Zach hissed, but I was already banging on the metal door that stood between me and Dr. Steve. "Hey, can one of you guys come give me a hand with this?" I asked in the most manly voice I could muster.
Zach looked at me like I was crazy, but then the door opened and I pulled one of the guards out by his collar. Shocked and dazed, he didn't even realize what was happening as I knocked him out with one punch and slapped a Napotine patch on his forehead just to be on the safe side.
"Nice one," Zach said. "Did you learn that in P&E?"
"No. Buffy the Vampire Shyer."
I studied the man who lay on the ground in front of us. The last time I'd seen him he'd been leaning against a 1957 Cadillac that stood parked along the Roseville town square. There was no telling how many operatives Dr. Steve had helping him—I didn't want to think about the odds. I dragged the man to the tall weeds twenty feet away from the door and helped Zach go through his pockets.
"Comms," I said, pulling an earpiece and microphone off the sleeping man's body. Zach inserted the earpiece while I peered through the dusty windows.
Dr. Steve was pacing the metal room. Crates lined the walls of the massive building, towering from the concrete floor to the tall ceiling.
"Guys," I whispered into my comms unit. "I've got a visual on the subject." At least four guards stood near Dr. Steve. Every few steps he'd stop and pat his pocket as if making sure it hadn't been picked. "Maintain your position until we give you the all clear."
Zach leaned close to me. "They've got at least fifteen guys."
"What do you hear?" I asked. Zach held up a finger to shush me. A dark shadow crossed his face as he listened to what the enemy was saying. "What is it, Zach?" I demanded. "What's going—"
"Cammie, listen to me," Zach said. "I don't know where he's going, or what Dr. Steve's planning to do with that list, but…" Zach trailed off. His gaze left mine, and for a second it seemed to linger in midair, dwelling on some distant
constellation. "… I think I know how he's getting there." He turned me to face west, where a small red light was blinking, growing closer.
"Guys," I whispered through my comms unit as the plane dipped lower on the horizon, "we've got a change of plans."
We were outnumbered and outsized. I heard the plane's landing gear groan as it started down, and saw the silhouettes of men exiting the building. This was not the time for a careful assault.
Bex jumped from the roof, flattening one guard, then swept a leg out and knocked a second one off his feet in one smooth motion. "They're here!" the man yelled out as he fell. But it was too late.
The buzz of rappel-a-cord through pulleys filled the air. For a moment it seemed to be raining Gallagher Girls. All around me fists flew, kicks landed. Zach touched the earpiece he'd stolen from the fallen guard and yelled to Bex and Grant, "Three guys are coming around the south side of the building—go!" And in a flash, they were off.
Liz had taken refuge in the cab of a forklift.
"Cammie, I need a weapon!" she called to me.
I'd knocked a guard to the ground and was struggling with a Napotine patch, but still managed to reply, "You're sitting in one!"
"Right," she said, and started looking for keys or a control switch—anything to make the big machine move. She must have given up, though, because the next time I saw her she was jumping from the cab, landing on the back of a guard who had been chasing Eva. The man spun around as if he couldn't quite imagine what had happened, and Liz squeezed tighter.
The plane touched down at the end of the runway. Through the rain, I saw the man in the blue jacket.
I moved toward him, feeling that things had gotten even more personal, but then the man Liz was gripping shook her free, and she went flying through the air, flattening the man in the blue jacket without throwing a single punch.
All around Dr. Steve the guards fell, one by one. To my right I saw a big burly guard go after Liz, but Zach lurched between them, taking a fist to the side of his face. He stumbled backward, then caught my eye. He held his face with one hand and gestured to Dr. Steve with the other.
"Go!" he screamed, and I ran.
The plane had reached the end of the runway; its propellers still spinning, a blur of water and light as the boys-teacher—our traitor—dashed through deep puddles and damp grass, bearing the straightest possible course toward the waiting aircraft—toward freedom.
I didn't think about my aching feet or growling stomach; I didn't hear the terrible thoughts that filled my head. I just put one foot in front of the other and ran until I stood just feet away from Dr. Steve and the waiting plane. I could tell by the look on his face that nothing about that moment seemed "excellent" to him.
"I think you've got something that belongs to us," I said. My voice was steady and calm, maybe because of training, or nerve, or the sight of Bex inching along the ground, crawling through the tall weeds that rimmed the tarmac, until she was poised by the plane's back wheel. "You're not leaving with that disc," I said, feeling myself start to sway despite the adrenalin that coursed through my blood.
"Oh," Dr. Steve said, as behind him the stairway to the plane began to descend. "I believe you're just a little…" He panted. "…too…" He drew another deep breath.